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Wyll has never in his life been immune to romance. Not the kind that leads to relationships, mind. No, the romance of drama, of exaggeration, of idealism. Noble heroes, dastardly villains, slotting together in perfect fairy tales. He was always pushed to read less fiction, given tales of real or at least supposedly real heroes to slake his thirst, but nothing quite satisfies him like a tale that's simply too good to be true.
Miracles, in a word. Things that don't make sense but happen in a story anyway. That's the joy of stories: they're made up. Everyone can have a perfectly happy ending, the hero can save the day, and whomever they've rescued won't simply be picked off moments after the hero's back is turned.
Of course, the other kind of romance has never been lost on him, either. When the two come together, the result is often that the rescued damsel offers her hand in marriage as thanks to her hero. When he was a young boy, Wyll thought that was too easy. As he grew older, his perspective shifted and he decided it wasn't that it's easy, it was that it's improper. How often was it some princess the hero has never met? Surely, that kind of marriage would be held up only by obligation. Love at first, though, maybe. Infatuation might be a better word.
In some stories, though, and harder to come across under his father's watchful eye back in the day, the romance would be less... easy. Hunting monsters is a noble pursuit that Wyll has always wanted to be a part of, be they physical monsters or simply evil, heartless bastards. However... the allure of romance beckoned him to more than one, more than two titles that clearly stated their intention to do something other than hunt a monster.
When he was an embarrassed, suppressed lad, Wyll told himself it was so he could learn all the monsters' and devils' tricks so he wouldn't have to worry about being seduced. He'd force himself to snap out of the immersion of a story as often as he could remember to do so, just to tell himself he wasn't enjoying it. Laughable, really.
Stories about vampires are quite romanticized in particular. He always felt they minimized how much a bite would hurt, how truly dangerous it would be to be with a vampire. Then he accidentally fell in love with one in real life and discovered, well... it doesn't hurt so much if it's for someone you care about. Just like any other injury. Though, he will say, the wooziness from blood loss is surprisingly exaggerated in the stories. Unless, of course, in the case of back to back feedings in quick succession. Which he also knows something about.
He still remembers this one story he'd read when he was maybe 15 or 16 years old. It was a story about a tiefling who made a deal with a vampire to keep each other safe. The tiefling was in possession of a magic cloak that could protect the vampire from the sun, but was being hunted by his former colleagues for leaving them when their experiments started to unsettle him. The vampire had haughtily insisted the cloak wasn't enough, demanding that the tiefling provide blood for him so he would no longer have to hunt. After much deliberation, the tiefling had agreed, and the vampire thought he'd secured a tool, only to slowly fall in love with the tiefling.
Wyll is rather sure no such thing exists in reality, but in the book, there was some kind of custom between a vampire and their chosen non-vampire lover. Mutually drinking each other's blood would somehow mark the mortal in a way other vampires could detect, which would grant them safety. It was cause for hesitation due to it being equivalent to marriage for vampires. The vampire in the book was reluctant to admit to himself that he cared so much for the tiefling, only realizing the pseudo-marriage was what he truly wanted within the last few chapters, once he'd gone through nearly losing his love on two separate occasions.
The book comes to mind now when he sees Astarion fresh from the battle they'd all fought hard to win. When the last body hit the ground, he'd sighed in something akin to disgust and rolled his shoulders as he stood up straight, and Wyll's eye has been drawn to the cut on his collarbone. They were caught unawares at camp, most of them already wearing their night clothes and about ready to settle in for the night. Astarion had huffed and complained the entire time about how his clothes had better not get ruined. For once, he'd kept his daggers put away and resorted to long-range combat so as not to get covered in cuts and blood.
Despite how careful he was, though, a raider had thrown not an arrow, not a weapon, but a rock, and grazed Astarion's collarbone. He'd been livid about the dirt, Wyll could see it in his eyes and his scowl and had a chuckle to himself about it.
It seems that even after careful cleaning, the wound stays a nuisance. He didn't get a good look at the rock, but it must have been especially sharp to leave such a gash.
"Doesn't still hurt, does it?" Wyll asks when Astarion makes it clear he's caught him staring. That damn smile.
"Oh, this? Dreadfully. If Shadowheart didn't elect to pass out while I was off washing up, I'm sure I'd be just fine!" he complains, almost certainly exaggerating.
"Look at you, relying on others!" Wyll teases. "How far you've come."
"Ugh, please. I've been relying on the lot of you since the moment we got out of that nautiloid. We rely on each other, like any other merry band of misfits. Nice not to be the only leech, I suppose," he adds, less cheerful.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the wound oozes the smallest trickle of blood. It wouldn't reach Astarion's shirt for minutes, if at all, despite the fairly short distance.
"Feel free to correct me as scathingly as possible if I'm wrong, but, I could swear you're more open now than you ever were. Maybe it's because there's not much left to hide," he ponders, and Astarion frowns but saves him any such scathing corrections.
"Fine. You win. Sometimes, when I get horrifically injured, I ask Shadowheart to heal me. If I'm feeling especially adventurous, perhaps I might even throw in a please and thank you."
"Now that, I'm not sure I believe."
Astarion laughs, but he's always too quick to cut it off with his wit.
"Maybe I'm not the one who's opening up. Maybe you're just peeking inside, poking around like the nosy little devil you are," he says, twirling his finger in the air at Wyll. "A literal one, I suppose."
Wyll remains caught on the sound of Astarion's laughter. He always carries himself so... purposefully. Carefully. Every reaction, while delightful, is rarely anything shy of calculated. It'd be nice, if he'd be more genuine, if maybe Wyll could get a real laugh out of him, someday. A laugh that takes him over and leaves him too breathless to respond, that makes it impossible to wear a fake face, no matter how pretty.
And his eye still doesn't leave that damn wound, either. The blood that surfaces there isn't the same shade of red as what Wyll had cleaned from his rapier just earlier. No, it's dark, old. Like aged wine, perhaps. Or like spoiled fruit.
(Fermented still...)
"Honestly, Wyll, I won't die from it," Astarion comments.
"I know. You've proven yourself plenty resilient," Wyll nods. "I wouldn't say I'm worried about it."
"Well, if you're just enjoying the view, then I regret that this ugly little gash is in the way. Did you know that I've been complimented on the symmetry of my collarbones before? I couldn't tell if he was actually some kind of expert, or... just insane."
"And now I've heard it all. You never talk about your exes!"
"Oh, they're..." Astarion grimaces a little. "Let's just say it's best not to dwell. And anyway, you're right. I don't know what's gotten into me. Post-battle haze? Something like an afterglow, perhaps? Pillow talk of blood, we could call it."
"Maybe, because I must admit that something's gotten into me as well," Wyll says, finally deciding to ask. "I may have been thinking about... trying your blood."
"... Oh," Astarion softly replies, and Wyll keeps a keen eye and ear on every little hint he can glean that the silly fairy tale ritual could have some truth to it. "A little reciprocation, then, darling? You do recall that I'm only a spawn."
Right. He remembers Astarion telling him how true vampires are made.
"Don't worry, I'm not looking to be turned either way. I've already been turned into one thing, and am in the process of trying not to get turned into another."
"What a coincidence! Me too."
Wyll smiles at him, but it's hard to meet his eyes for long.
"Ugh. I guess it's only fair," Astarion allows with hopefully false reluctance. "Don't expect much, though. Blood this old is hardly edible. Potable? It's disgusting, let's put it that way."
"It's not really about the taste, so much as the feeling. It's just something I've been curious about," Wyll says.
And when he leans in and runs his tongue just once along the cut, gets to hear the quietest intake of air, Astarion is right. The taste is terrible. The marriage ritual still lingers in his mind, but it means nothing if Astarion doesn't know about it anyway. He'd probably laugh at the idea. Not genuinely. Unless...
"You know, I read a book when I was younger. A, uh, vampire romance book," Wyll admits, getting the hard part out of the way first. He pauses to let Astarion overreact.
"Oh my! Our resident monster hunter, secretly reading smutty vampire novels! Well, no wonder you ended up in bed with me! Is that what constitutes hunting monsters to you? Oh, I should let Karlach know right away," he pokes and prods, relentlessly amused.
"If you're done," Wyll says with fond exasperation, "that book described a certain... ritual that vampires and their mortal lovers can undergo. A ritual that's basically an equivalent to marriage. In the context of the book, I mean."
"What's stopping them from just having a regular marriage? Apart from one of them being a vampire, of course."
"It's romance, Astarion! It's more romantic if there's a special, unique, entirely fictional ritual."
"Hm. If I were writing a vampire romance novel, the ultimate marriage ceremony would confer the mortal's powers to the vampire, not the other way around. Sun walking, reflection viewing, all those special powers that may as well be fictional to me."
"At least you've got sun walking for now," Wyll shrugs. "Vampirism not all it's cracked up to be?"
"Wyll. While I'm being so open tonight, let me tell you this: vampirism has made me irreparably miserable for two. Hundred. Years. Gods, if just marrying you would cure me of vampirism, I'd be on my knees every day until you said yes!"
"On your knees, you say?" Wyll chuckles. "Shouldn't it be one knee?"
"It's a bit of an awkward position to hold. I'd prefer to be a bit more comfortable."
"While doing what, exactly?"
"Why, proposing to you, of course! And potentially offering a little extra incentive while I'm in the neighborhood."
Wyll laughs, and then Astarion is shrinking the distance between them, that charming smile coming so temptingly close.
"So? How did it feel, to try my blood?" he asks, voice low, the same way he always uses to get Wyll to falter at least a little.
"Well, it goes without saying that it tasted terrible."
"Ugh, I'm hurt!" he feigns, a dramatic arm coming up over his forehead. "Is my two centuries-dead blood not enough of a delicacy for you? And anyway, I did warn you. But you said it was about the feeling, so... how did it feel?"
How to put it? How to identify it, even? With his attraction to Astarion and the memory of the fictional ritual in his head, dragging his tongue across Astarion's skin was a delight he'd never want to give up. It's possible they've been taking things a bit too slowly, if Wyll is craving intimacy with him to this degree.
Then again, he wouldn't have it any other way. The slow burn excites him more than any whirlwind romance could. The inching towards each other, denying each other what they both know they want. It's partly about not rushing into things, about getting to know each other, about not basing a relationship on sex alone, but... as they say, hunger is the best spice.
Astarion's hands are on Wyll's shoulders, still so close, and his intent is rather clear in those delightfully hooded eyes. Mercifully slow, Wyll gives him a kiss. He intends it to be just the one. Astarion doesn't let him stop to breathe until it feels more like twenty.
"It felt a bit like that," Wyll says, breathless.
"Oh, I know the feeling. It's like that for me every time you let me bite you," Astarion says, almost purrs.
Yes. Each night Astarion drops by to feed, it's a test of Wyll's patience. His will. Some nights more than others, he has to resist the urge to flip Astarion onto his back and, at the very least, kiss him silly. No, he restrains himself and lets Astarion feed without any consequences, good or bad.
"That's enough of that, you beguiler," Wyll chides as he leans away, as much as it kills him. "It's getting late and I'm heading to bed."
Astarion scoffs, playing at being thoroughly offended at the name. And what an accurate name it is, for Wyll to have to fight such intense cravings.